Stepbrother
by budgefan1990
Summary: After nine years of living as an invalid, Ryou Bakura finds love in a young, struggling Egyptian named Malik Ishtar. Now joined in domestic "bliss", their boys must learn to get along... but there is something off about Bakura's new stepbrother. AU Psychoshipping, Angstshipping YBxYM RBxMI
1. Chapter 1

A/N. This is an AU, it takes place in the U.S. (nowhere specific). Bakura and Mariku are 16 and 15 here, Malik is 25, and Ryou is 42. Minor characters will probably not be from the YGO cast.

Names:

Ryou Bakura=Ryou Bakura hurdur

**Meni Bakura=Yami Bakura (!)**

Malik Ishtar=Malik/Marik Ishtar

Mariku Ishtar=Yami Marik

WARNINGS: INCEST, NON-CON, VIOLENCE

**Chapter 1**

It was on Sunday morning, the Sunday before the first day of the school year, that Ryou Bakura woke up early and prepared a lavish breakfast—pancakes, scones, steak and eggs—for himself and his son, Meni. Having forgotten that his son was, in fact, a teenager, Ryou ended up reheating the meal four times before the boy actually emerged from his room... during that time, the pale-haired man took his formidable pile of morning meds, did a sudoku and a crossword, and drank an entire pot of Earl Grey, trying to will away the headache brought on by his tight jaw. He nearly jumped from his seat when his son finally came in, and as Meni took in the scene, table comically spread and Ryou practically vibrating in his seat with nervous energy, he could tell that something was amiss. Seeing the look on the boy's face, Ryou got up, fixed him a plate, sat him down, took a deep breath, stared him in the eye and told him that his boyfriend was moving in.

This was a surprise for a few reasons. For one, Ryou hadn't dated—hadn't _had _a date—in nine years, since Meni's mother had passed. For another, Meni had never seen or heard of this boyfriend, who his father explained had been a part of his life for almost a year now. And third...

"_Since when are you even gay?!"_

Resisting the temptation to close his eyes against the throbbing of his head, Ryou had explained that it wasn't really a matter of sexuality; his boyfriend ("_Boyfriend!"_)... his boyfriend wasn't gay either, or at least, not exclusively. (_"So he's a slut."_) He wasn't a slut. He just didn't have a preference, or the time, for that matter; he was raising a teenager too, his sister's son.

"_... Don't tell me his kid's moving in too."_

His kid was moving in too. And Ryou didn't blame Meni when he slammed his hand onto the table, yelling that this was all bullshit, and he didn't blame him when he stormed out of the room. He was, in fact, surprised when he came back a couple hours later and asked for the boyfriend's name.

"_Malik."_

"_Is he black?"_

"_He's North African. Egyptian."_

"_Egyptian."_

Ryou and his son shared a love of ancient cultures, particularly Egyptian and Sumerian; in fact, Meni was named for the Sumerian god of luck. Much of their fascination was based in the occult and magic aspects, related artefacts and knick-knacks lining the shelves and walls of their old Victorian home. Ryou's trade was in old books and he specialized in parchment and papyri; it was how he met Malik, he explained, when he'd come to Ryou to sell some family heirlooms.

"_Good to see he values his heritage so much."_

Now, that wasn't fair. He'd been holding onto them, but he really needed the money. He was raising a teenager on his own, had been raising the boy since he'd been a teenager himself.

"_...How old is this guy, again?"_

….Twenty-five.

And Meni had exploded again. Ryou had anticipated this, honestly; despite being chronically frail after the accident that had taken his wife, he'd amassed a reasonable nest egg for himself, more than enough for the two of them to live comfortably. He'd wondered himself if Malik's attraction toward him hadn't blossomed the moment he'd stepped into the million-dollar house.

"_He's been in the house? When was he in the house?!"_

He built the greenhouse. The one that had gone up where all those blackberry bushes used to be, while Ryou's son was staying with his grandfather. No, it wasn't like that, it was all platonic at that point, but that was when they'd really started getting to know eachother. No, no, not like _that_...

They went on this way for a while. At one point Meni marched to his room, slamming the door so loudly that Ryou's knick-knacks rattled on the wall. But by evening, father and son had both returned to the kitchen, and it was decided over dinner that if a week had passed and Meni was still opposed to the new company, Ryou would comply with his wishes and things would go back to normal. Meni returned Ryou's heartfelt thanks with a sneer and roll of his eyes; as his father went to phone his boyfriend, the teen leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and started thinking up ways to make 'Malik' run screaming from the house before the week was up.

* * *

Meni nearly threw another fit when he found out that his father's 'guests' would be coming in that night, but he restrained himself. The worse Ryou felt about it, the more leverage he had; he'd be sure to remember this debacle the next time the school called, or Ryou wanted him to go visit his doddering old grandfather again. So he resigned himself to seething silently, a couple yards away from his father, while the two of them waited out on the porch. The night was hot and humid still, August reluctant to give way for September, and moths fluttered around the yellow light overhead, casting small brief shadows. Apparently oblivious to his son's sour mood, Ryou stared almost unblinkingly ahead at the street. A nervous grin spread across his face when he heard a loud, growling sound, like a lawnmower, getting closer.

"Oh, _brother_." Meni rolled his eyes when he recognized the sound as a motorcycle, probably a souped up chopper; of all the gay stereotypes he'd anticipated, biker was not one of them. He'd already imagined this 'Malik' as a hairy, oiled up kind of guy, soft hands, greased back hairdo. Lots of jewelry, probably a gold chain or two gleaming out of his chest hair. Now his mental image was updated to include a thick mustache... leather chaps... assless chaps... Suddenly he didn't want to be a part of the welcome committee, and slunk inside. Ryou didn't seem to notice.

By the time he'd closed the door, the bike had grown much louder, until he was sure it was in front of the house; then the engine cut, and he held his breath. There were quick, jingling steps, like boots with spurs, and then his father's dulcet greeting.

"Hi."

A young, rich voice, full of mischief. "Hey."

There was a pause, and a soft wet sound. Meni nearly gagged. This went on for a good thirty seconds, and he had half a mind to storm out there when they finally spoke again.

"Where... don't you have a bag, or anything?"

"Just this, for now. Mariku's bringing the rest over."

"He's not coming tonight?"

"He'd better, he's got school in the morning. I don't know, he said he had some things to take care of. Should be here in a couple of hours, tops. Where's Meni?"

The sound of his name in the low, foreign voice sent a jolt through the teen, who was still hovering by the door.

"Uh, he was just here... Meni!"

The boy swallowed. He didn't realize how badly he wanted _not _to have to meet his father's boyfriend until now, and his anger with Ryou bubbled up all over again. How _dare _he put him in this position? Honestly!

"Meni?!"

"_What?!_"

He thought he heard a chuckle at his tone. Oh, that biker bear did _not _just find his rage amusing... puffing his chest up, Meni swung the door open and marched out. When he caught sight of the young man standing on his porch, he blinked.

_This _was Malik?

The age difference was one thing in theory; standing here before him, it was a whole new level of wrong. His father's bone-thin frame, swathed in linen pants and a worn wool sweater that hung off him like a clothes hanger, crisp white shirt collar folded neatly over the neckline, wire-framed glasses sitting on delicately hollowed cheekbones... he was forty-two, gentle and resigned as a moth. _Malik_, on the other hand, stood proud as a peacock, bronze-skinned and blonde-haired, toned arms bare and torso scarcely covered by his black leather moto vest. His jeans were stylishly faded, and his combat boots must have cost at least three hundred dollars (_Three twenty-five_, Meni had been eyeing a pair just like them at the Diesel store). His hair, not as long as either Bakura's, still reached past his shoulders, windswept and thick, framing high cheekbones and an artfully sculpted jaw. He looked like a commercial, a pinup, a magazine ad.

_Gold-digger_.

"Hey there." The young Egyptian greeted with a confident nod. "Ryou talks about you all the time."

"Oh?" Meni sneered. "That's about the same amount of time he spends _not _talking about you."

Malik snorted with laughter, his nose wrinkling attractively. Not the reaction he'd wanted. Ryou groaned, before putting a hand on his son's shoulder and leading him out of the doorway. He shook it off; they _never _touched, and they weren't going to start now. Ryou took it in stride.

"This is Malik." His father stated erroneously, eyes pleading. Malik lifted his chin, staring down at Meni from a lofty height advantage. The teen stared back venomously, and neither offered a hand.

"Nice to finally meet you, Meni."

"If my dad talks about me so much, you'd know," Meni smirked, raising his own chin, "I _hate _that name."

"Yeah..." Malik smirked right back. "He mentioned that."


	2. Chapter 2

Heeeere's Mariku!

(I still don't own Yugioh.)

**Chapter 2**

If Meni thought he hated the idea of his father's boyfriend, the man himself far surpassed his expectations. Malik Ishtar was absolutely _unbearable_, he decided as he watched the aforementioned Egyptian sip coffee (which they _never _drank) out of a black mug (_his _mug), chatting with Ryou. Or rather, Ryou chatted his remaining nervousness away, going on about Meni's school and the district and test scores and national averages and Malik watched him, a lazy smile teasing at his lips. Meni didn't like the look, he didn't like the conversation, and he certainly didn't like _Malik_. He made no effort to hide it, and to add insult to injury, the Egyptian didn't seem too worried about it.

"Are you taking any AP classes this year, Bakura?"

At least he'd started calling him by the name he always went by, rather than the one that Ryou used, and only then to holler at him from across the house. Bakura snorted.

"Three of them."

"Wow, impressive."

"He's got a 4.0," Ryou grinned over the rim of his own mug (tea, of course, not _coffee_). "Since eighth grade."

"That means _all A's_." Bakura stretched out the last two words, as if he was speaking to a toddler.

"Does it?" Malik took a sip, eyes twinkling with amusement. "We didn't get A's back in the old country. They just gave us wine of the date palm in a lamb's skin_,_ _sadiqi_." He dropped his voice and cranked the accent up about ten notches. "Then we danced around the fire." Ryou snorted into his cup, and Bakura rolled his eyes.

"Aren't you from DC?"

"Yeah." Malik crossed his legs, smirking.

Ryou took that opening to start talking about the school district again, and Bakura tuned him out, though Malik's eyes remained fixed on his father's animated face. He hadn't noticed outside, but the Egyptian's eyes were an odd mix of light brown and blue, almost purple. They looked too natural to be contacts, but Bakura had no doubt that the blonde came out of a bottle... this man was supposed to hail from North Africa, not the North _Pole_. Then again, his eyebrows were only slightly darker, and Bakura's own hair was, like his father's, so pale it was nearly white.

"So..." he noticed that Ryou's attention, and consequently Malik's, had turned to him. "...Mariku will probably be sharing your room."

This didn't come as a shock, since it was either that or Ryou clear out his home office, which was hugely impractical. Bakura's room had been a master bedroom once, it was massive and already had another twin bed on the opposite side. Currently it was a pile of clothes, clean and otherwise, but there was a bed under it. Nonetheless, Bakura didn't have to be happy about it.

"You'll like him," Ryou encouraged, eyes bright behind his glasses, "I've met him a few times. I think you'll get along, don't you?" He turned to Malik at the end, and the latter nodded, his lip twitching at some inside joke. Bakura felt left out, and he scowled.

"So he's an asshole, is what you're saying."

Ryou grinned. "I believe you're the one who said it."

Bakura turned to Malik. "And, what, a psycho too, right?"

Malik didn't meet his eyes, sipping his coffee. "No more than usual." Somewhat abruptly, he set the black mug down, reaching in his back pocket and fishing out an old, scratched up flip-phone that was at odds with the rest of his appearance. He turned to Ryou.

"I'm gonna give him a call, see where he is."

Ryou nodded, and Malik excused himself. The moment the Egyptian had stepped into the hallway, Ryou seemed to deflate, shrinking in his chair under the weight of some unseen burden. The picture of guilt. This pleased Bakura, and with a smug folding of his arms he waited for his father to speak.

"You don't like him."

"I don't like him."

Ryou sighed. "You think he's after our money."

Bakura blinked, wondering how exactly he'd given that away. Nonetheless... "I think he's after our money."

Ryou met his eyes, unintentionally assuming the familiar pleading look that Bakura hated. "I... I know he's young, and, er... flashy... but I can almost promise you, really, that's not why he's here."

"And what makes you so sure?" Bakura piqued an eyebrow.

Ryou seemed to contemplate this, before he set his cup down, leaning back in his chair. "I don't know. He's let me see... sides of him that he keeps hidden. He's very guarded. He's extremely guarded, actually." Ryou's eyes seemed to wander into the past. "But he lets go sometimes."

Bakura watched his father mill about in his memories, not caring to imagine what they might entail. Ryou was prone to fantasy, and it was maybe half a minute when he returned to the present with a wry smile.

"You must think I'm an idiot."

"Yeah, that's nothing new."

Ryou's smile gave way to a grin, and he reclaimed his tea cup, dragging down the last of it. They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, and then Malik emerged from the hallway, sweeping his hair back from his eyes. He looked... different, serious.

"He's leaving now," he said, sliding back into his chair with his gaze cast at the floor.

"Splendid," Ryou chirped, standing to gather everyone's cups and deposit them in the sink. "Has he eaten? Do you think he wants dinner?"

"Don't trouble yourself."

"It's no trouble," Ryou ran the sink, letting it fill. "It's almost nine, he's probably hungry. Don't want to get off on the wrong foot."

"He knows you already, Ryou," Malik chuckled, watching the pale man go about his business. "You're already on the wrong foot."

Ryou laughed, but Bakura found the statement odd. His father, though not at all social, was universally liked. Adored, most of the time, for his quirky, dark sense of humor and bottomless generosity. "Why?"

Malik turned to him. "He thinks Ryou's old."

"Ryou _is _old," corrected Ryou. Malik barked a laugh, and Bakura left it at that. So the other teen wasn't thrilled about the relationship either. And, if he'd assumed correctly, he was also a pain in the ass, like himself... breaking up this 'domestic bliss' may just be easier than he'd thought.

* * *

Forty minutes passed, and Bakura had only just retreated to the dark sanctity of his room when he was called out to help unload Malik and Mariku's things. He'd heard the other teen arrive, but hadn't seen fit to go out and greet him; he'd be meeting him soon enough, anyway. At some point he'd shoved the pile of clothes off of the extra twin bed and onto the floor, and as far as he was concerned, that was hospitality enough. So he ignored the call and remained where he was, lounging on his bed with his headphones in, blasting thrash metal in the dark.

He saw shadows in the light coming in from under the door and knew that his guest had arrived. Plucking one bud from his ear, he listened in and heard Malik speaking to someone that wasn't his father. Bakura noted that Mariku's—he assumed it was Mariku's—voice was unusually raspy; a chain smoker, probably. Fantastic. When the door opened Bakura made no move to get up, returned the earbud, and regarded Mariku with indifference.

It would seem that Mariku didn't realize he was there, because when he flicked the light on, his eyes went wide, pupils tiny... or maybe that's just how they always were, because the wildness didn't leave them even as a grin spread across his face. Bakura noted that Mariku was practically a carbon copy of his uncle, the only differences being age, hairstyle and general demeanor, much like he was of his father. Like Malik, Mariku's skin was bronze, at odds with blonde hair; unlike Malik, his hair seemed to have the texture of a lion's mane, frizzy and stiff. It stood up in much the same way as a lion's, falling only slightly at the back and over his forehead, doing nothing to obscure his unsettling gaze.

"Hey there," Mariku snickered, looking and sounding as though he found Bakura very amusing. It rubbed him all the wrong ways, and Bakura sat up, abandoning his music with a scowl.

"Mariku, right?" He sneered, cocking his head to the other side of the room. "That's your bed. Kindly keep your shit on that side."

Mariku's grin didn't fade in the least as he crossed the room, hauling an overstuffed gym back. "Yeah?Or what?"

"Or I'm burning it," Bakura replied. He certainly wouldn't have any qualms making good on his threat; burning something sounded pretty good right about now.

Mariku raised his hands in mock surrender, and Bakura noted that the veins on his wiry arms stood out prominently. More importantly, he noted that he wasn't being taken seriously, if that irrepressible grin spoke to anything.

"You're a pretty cheerful guy, aren't you?" He sneered.

Mariku giggled. "Can be. I'm also high, though."

_Brilliant_. Bakura wasn't sure _what _Mariku was high on, but the other had the demeanor of someone who had been shocked repeatedly and enjoyed every minute; he was guessing it wasn't weed. _Just my luck._

"Well, go fuck off and be high somewhere else," Bakura spat, "I'm sure your uncle needs your help, can't have him breaking a nail."

At the mention of Malik, Mariku's grin spread even wider. "You've met my Maliku, then?"

"I've had the pleasure, yeah," Bakura folded his arms across his chest, not understanding what about the situation was throwing Mariku into a fit of the giggles; he supposed the drugs may have had something to do with it. Regardless, it was unsettling, so he spoke again. "I understand you've met my dear _old_ father as well."

Somewhat surprisingly, that did the trick. Mariku's giggles died away, and his grin twitched just a bit. "Yeah, I've met him."

Bakura didn't really want to pursue the subject, because he sensed that he'd be getting angry on Ryou's behalf if he did. He may not like him all the time, but Ryou was his family, _all _of his family, and he was protective of him... he'd only known Mariku a matter of minutes, but he could already sense that it was unwise to display any weakness, to give him any buttons to push. So he didn't, and in the next moment Malik appeared in the doorway, eyeing Bakura first before flicking his gaze to Mariku.

"Come get the stuff out of the back," he said shortly, and Mariku's grin returned full force as he trotted off after his uncle. After a moment Bakura decided with a bitter frown that he wouldn't get any more peace in his room, so he shuffled out to find his father and linger angrily around him. If he was going to be uncomfortable, he damn well wasn't going to be the only one.

* * *

Ryou was boiling pasta when Bakura entered and collapsed noisily into a chair, and he would have laughed at his son's exaggerated displeasure if he didn't feel so guilty about it. As it was, he offered him a placating glance, to which the teen only tightened his crossed arms over his chest and scowled deeper.

"You and Mariku aren't getting on, then?"

"No, he's a bit too _cheerful_." Bakura spat pointedly, and he suspected Ryou would know exactly what he was referring to. But the comment seemed to go over his head; figures. Ryou often had his head in the clouds, and it seemed that being around his new boytoy only exacerbated it.

"You know, Malik thought maybe you'd be more comfortable rooming upstairs with me, at least for tonight." Ryou posed, turning down the heat on the stove. "Him and Mariku downstairs. What do you think?"

"I think I'd rather sleep in a dumpster full of used needles," Bakura huffed, leaning further into his chair. Ryou had figured as much, but Malik had been very insistent that he consider the option. He smiled lightly; for all his posturing, the young Egyptian seemed to be genuinely concerned about making peace with his son.

"Well, let me know if you change your mind." Ryou said pointlessly, and he shut off the stove completely, tapping his spoon on the edge of the steaming saucepan. "Could you go and get Mariku?"

Bakura growled, but got up all the same. He heard the Egyptians upstairs, stomping around like they owned the place. Eating _his _pasta. Drinking out of _his _mug... He reached the top of the stairs and went for the door to his father's room, but the tone of Malik's voice coming from within gave him pause; though low and muffled, it was urgent, insistent, and deadly serious. Bakura stayed still and listened.

"Do _not _fuck with me on this," he heard Mariku chuckle, "I'm serious."

"How many times have we had this conversation? Really, Maliku."

"I know you're fucking high. I swear to God, if you brought that shit into this house-"

"Calm down," Mariku's voice was saccharine, "I'm touched by your concern, but you don't have to worry. We made a deal, didn't we? Don't you trust me?"

"You know I don't."

Sharp laughter, startling Bakura. "Then what's the point of making me promise over and over?"

"Just-" Malik huffed, and Bakura heard his footsteps approaching. Out of instinct, he darted away from the door, down the hall a bit where the darkness would mask him. As it were, Malik paused before the door, and when he spoke it was even lower, even more absolute. "Don't hurt them. Do _not _fucking hurt them, Mariku. You hurt them, and I won't hold back."

"I'm shaking," quick footsteps, and Mariku laughing, "Kidding! I'm kidding, god _damn_ Maliku, you're being _hilarious _about this! Fuck, you're whipped!"

Malik said something, venomously, and Bakura suspected that he had leaned in very close to say it. Mariku merely chuckled.

"Okay, okay. I already said I wouldn't. Really, I'm not a _monster_..." this time it was Mariku approaching the door, and for some reason, the fact made Bakura move a little further down the hall. Sure enough, Mariku marched out a moment later, barking about being hungry. Malik followed immediately, as if afraid to let the teen out of his sight, and the two of them disappeared down the stairs. For a moment, Bakura lingered where he was, trying to make sense of what he'd heard; he had gotten the gist of it, and though he'd already known not to turn his back to the other teen, the idea that Mariku wanted to hurt him or his father was more disconcerting than he would admit. It wasn't that Mariku was that much bigger than him—though he was dramatically more muscular—that put Bakura off; he'd dealt with larger opponents in the past, and knew more than a few dirty tricks to bring them down. No, it was Mariku's wild eyes that worried him, the grin that said that everything and everyone was nothing short of an amusement. Discomfort pulling at his stomach, Bakura emerged from the shadows and made his way downstairs.

* * *

While difficult to imagine, Bakura had understood the concept of someone disliking Ryou. Watching Mariku interact with him was a different story, and it had him on the edge of his seat, itching to beat the living shit out of him.

The other teen had tromped into the kitchen, sat down, and started eating without even glancing at his host. Malik had been on his heels, of course, and had ordered him in no uncertain terms to thank Ryou for the trouble. The fact that he had to suggest it at all was awkward; Mariku's blatant refusal to do so was much moreso. Obviously embarrassed by both his unruly nephew and his lack of control, Malik had started in on him... but Ryou had put a hand on his shoulder, smiling. Bakura's father liked conflict about as little as Bakura enjoyed it.

Now, Mariku was eating with the most bizarre combination of ferocity and disgust. Bakura knew from experience that his father was an above average cook—not the best, but definitely able to throw together a pleasant meal, as he'd been a widower for nine years. There was no way that the dish he'd prepared was as noxious as Mariku's scowl would suggest, and the fact that he was basically shoveling it down anyway was testament to the fact. Nonetheless, Ryou continued to smile, albeit in that sideways, quirky way he did when he found something curious. Malik, on the other hand, looked as though he wanted either Mariku or himself to die on the spot.

"Wipe your mouth," Malik muttered, though he was really referring to the red sauce smeared across Mariku's chin. What was he, five?

Mariku smirked at him, and made a show of whipping his napkin from the table and dabbing daintily at his face.

"So, Mariku," Ryou began, and the smirk dropped. "About tomorrow. You and Meni are the same grade, so I think I'll drop the two of you off early so he can show you around the school."

Mariku gave no response, but Bakura groaned.

"He can show his own damn self around," he mumbled, narrowed eyes fixed on spattered sauce all around Mariku's plate. And on the good tablecloth, too.

"Seriously," Mariku agreed, which hadn't been Bakura's intention at all. However, faced with _two _surly adolescents, Ryou relented somewhat.

"Either way," he went on, "I think you should be up early. What time do you usually get up, Mariku?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"_Mariku!_" Malik slammed his hand on the table, startling everyone. "Stop being such a goddamned child!"

"Touch-_y!_" Mariku laughed, eyes wide. It was the first time he'd put down his fork since he'd sat down.

"Really, Malik, it's fine-"

"It's not. Apologize to Ryou. _Now_."

"Fine, fine...fuck," laughing, Mariku turned to look Ryou in the eyes, also for the first time since he'd sat down. His gaze was literally unblinking. "I'm sorry I said a bad word, Ryou. It won't happen again, honest."

His tone was more sarcastic than Bakura could ever recall his own being; that was saying something. However, Ryou cut in before Malik could, his smile absolutely unshakeable. "It's fine."

Mariku grinned back, though it was more of a grimace, and he went back to eating. Ryou seemed appeased, and struck up a conversation with Malik, who looked as though he was spring-loaded at the moment. With the attention off of him, Mariku eased up on his scowling, opting instead to stare dead eyed at his meal as he brutalized it. Though he'd obviously not been sincere in his apology, the very fact that he'd had to give it seemed to have put him on edge; ropy veins stood out on his forearms, and the skin over his knuckles was pulled taut. Bakura thought he could even see a vein pulsing in his neck... he was fascinated by it. He was fascinated by the fact that there was someone so full of rage that a person like _Ryou _could stir up this much ire. But from the moment he'd met Mariku, he had sensed that he was capable of unusual things, of... extremes. Malice seemed to pulse through him like electricity, shocking his veins and making his wiry hair stand on end. And that electricity coursed through Bakura when Mariku was suddenly staring at him, grinning.

Bakura schooled the surprise out of his features, hardened them, and stared back.

Amusement lit up in Mariku's eyes. Dangerous amusement, and he flicked his tongue out to clean the corner of his mouth, but didn't retract it; instead, he let it loll out, grotesquely long, and tongued the air obscenely. This time it was a bit more difficult for Bakura to maintain his poker face, discomfort creeping down his spine.

He'd never found anyone so repulsive.

* * *

After dinner, Ryou had been exhausted, and retired with Malik to the upstairs. Bakura tried to ignore the burning in his gut at the thought of his father in bed with another man, but the way Mariku was waggling his eyebrows and blowing kisses at Malik made it impossible. Then he was alone with the Egyptian teen, which he would not admit—even to himself—frightened the hell out of him.

Fortunately, Mariku had a call, and he'd gone out on the porch to take it. Bakura took the opportunity to change out of his clothes; he didn't particularly want to be naked in front of Mariku, not after the tongue thing... after a half hour had gone by and the other hadn't returned, Bakura felt enough at ease to settle down for bed. For a while he stared at the ceiling, watching the vague flicker of the porchlight, and letting his mind wander. It had been a taxing day, and tomorrow he would be getting up early, and Mariku would be in the bed across the room. Maybe he'd get dressed in the bathroom... _no_. He wasn't going to change his routine on account of _Mariku_, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be frightened out of his own room, his domain... ridiculous. And what was it about the other teen that he had even been afraid of, anyway? He was bigger, granted, but Bakura had felled opponents twice Mariku's size. And he was _weird_, but what was so threatening about that? Weirdness on its own couldn't hurt Bakura, hell, he thrived on it. In fact, maybe they _could _get along, as Ryou and Ryou's Blowup Doll had hoped... but no, Mariku was below him, and he had no use for friends. Never had, never would... as Bakura's thoughts grew more abstract, his eyes fell closed. Mariku still hadn't returned, the air in the room was empty and cool, just as Bakura liked it best. He fell asleep to the distant sound of Mariku's conversation on the porch, threatening and low, punctuated with sharp laughter.

It was only a few hours later when Bakura found himself returning to consciousness, bit by bit, ears alert before his eyes had opened. He didn't know what had woke him up until he was almost fully awake, and he realized that it was the noises. A slow shock went through his body as his brain sought to sort the sounds out... there was a strange quality to them, he could tell they were far away but they were amplified somehow, tinny. In his haze, he had thought it was conversation, maybe Mariku still on the phone... as his mind cleared, he recognized it.

Moaning.

Sex.

At first his body went stiff, unable to identify the source of the sounds. His first impulse was to look across the room to see if Mariku had come in at some point... he realized two things at the same time.

The first was that the noises were his father's and Malik's, coming through the ceiling vent.

The second was that Mariku _was_ there, and he was masturbating to them.

Bakura froze, turning his head away as quietly as he could and hoping to his dark gods that he hadn't been noisy in waking up. Not that it would have mattered; unbeknownst to the couple upstairs, the acoustics were such that their activities were being more or less broadcasted to the two teenagers below. Bakura felt his stomach roll in discomfort when there was a sharp cry in what was unmistakably his father's voice, followed by a husky murmur that was Malik's. It was a small blessing that Ryou's mattress wasn't a box spring; he was sure it would be squeaking if it was, giving away the rhythm of their... exercise. Thankfully, Bakura was fairly sure that Mariku hadn't noticed he was awake, because the other boy was sprawled on top of his covers, legs spread wide, and completely naked. Bakura didn't think he could bare himself that shamelessly even if he was alone in the house.

It would seem that Mariku didn't have such sensibilities, because at the next loud yelp he turned his head in Bakura's direction and chuckled.

"You should be grateful, Bakura," he muttered, voice low and roiling with mischief, "he's giving your mommy a real workout."

Bakura was unable to respond quickly, too affronted by the fact that Mariku knew he was awake, and yet his hand was still moving up and down his prominently displayed erection. After he'd regained his composure, he spoke, a vicious growl.

"Cover your shit up. That's disgusting."

"Why should I?" Mariku snorted. "I've got nothing to hide."

From what Bakura could see (though he was trying very hard not to), he could certainly confirm that. He felt the familiar, acidic ache of physical inadequacy in his throat, and then the venom that invariably followed.

"Fine, just don't get too comfortable." He spat. "When Ryou finds out I'll have your ass out on the street where you belong."

"You're not having my ass anywhere, faggot," Mariku giggled.

Bakura paused a beat, then scoffed. "Says the guy beating off to his uncle."

Mariku chuckled.

With the lull in conversation, the sounds from upstairs were once again at the forefront of Bakura's attention, and he shifted around in discomfort, willing away the images they brought to mind. Mariku, it would seem, had no qualms imagining what was going on; he was staring fully at the cieling and grinning, hand moving faster on his bare skin. Bakura turned away fully, facing the wall now, and growled in his throat. Oh, he'd certainly have a story to tell when his father asked him how he slept.

When the moaning and gasping and god knows what else became louder and more frequent, it was clear that things were approaching a climax upstairs. Bakura snatched his pillow from under him and buried his head in it, face hot with embarrassment; Ryou's voice was constant now, rhythmic and punctuated, unintelligible but for what was probably Malik's name. The fact that Bakura had to hear his father that way made him angry at everyone involved—Ryou, for sounding like he was auditioning for amateur porn, Malik, for making him, and _Mariku_, for having the gall to get off on it. Bakura stewed in his indignation, squeezing the pillow tighter around his head when Ryou cried out, choked and blissful. It was so difficult not to imagine the scene above him that Bakura forced his eyes open, desperate for any distraction... instantly he wished he hadn't, because in the small space that his vision wasn't obscured by the pillow around his head he could see Mariku's body. It was bare and dark against the white of his sheets, almost black, a shadow if not for the faint light from the street catching on his wiry musculature. And at the sound of Malik's orgasm, a strangled groan of Ryou's name, Bakura saw Mariku's body tense; he squeezed his eyes shut again, barely saving himself from witnessing the other's climax but unable to ignore the loud moan that filled the room.

It was quiet, finally.

Then Mariku scoffed.

"Fucking queer."

Bakura tensed at the vicious tone and the sound of rustling fabric, prepared to fight if Mariku was heading in his direction... but the Egyptian teen was only getting under his sheets, settling in to sleep. As Mariku's breathing evened out—remarkably fast, Bakura thought over the blood beating in his ears—the pale boy loosened his grip on the pillow around his head, letting it fall back to its normal position. The room seemed bright, now that his field of vision was opened up, and after a tense minute he flicked his gaze to the still form across the room. It was strange to see the other at rest, like watching the glowing embers left by a roaring, violent fire... Bakura's brow furrowed, and he wondered who Mariku had been referring to with such blatant disgust before he fell asleep. The thought, and the events preceding it, bothered about his restless consciousness until sleep finally returned to claim it.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Dont own Yugioh

This chapter is unpleasant. Why so creepy Mariku

**Chapter 3**

The first thing Bakura saw when he woke was his father's face.

It'd been a long time since Ryou stopped coming in to wake his son up in the mornings, and the sight of him disoriented Bakura, made him sit up, frowning, vaguely wondering if there was a fire in the house or a death in the family. But no, Ryou was smiling... a bit guiltily, for whatever reason.

As his mind caught up to him, Bakura remembered the reason, and a few other... _details_ from the night before.

"Where's Mariku?" He groaned, voice croaky with sleep, pointedly avoiding Ryou and scanning the room.

"He's in the kitchen," Ryou replied, patting his son on the knee, "it's six thirty. Let's leave by seven."

Bakura grumbled, tossing his blankets away and planting his feet on the floor. Ryou stood with a short, airy sigh.

"Breakfast's on the table," he called after Bakura, answered only by the slamming and locking of the bathroom door.

* * *

After a quick, lukewarm shower, Bakura's growling stomach compelled him toward the kitchen, despite the fact that he could already hear the squabbling of his least favorite guests. He turned into the room to find the two Egyptian's hovering by the stove, Malik leant casually against the counter and Mariku _sitting _on it, hands thrust in his pockets. Now, Bakura had no desire to know where that ass had been, but he was certain he didn't want it anywhere near his food... which is why he stomped across the room to shove Mariku off the counter, sending him toppling into Malik, who made no move to catch him.

"What the fuck!" Mariku snapped, having barely caught himself before his face made contact with the edge of the table. Malik merely snickered unapologetically and Bakura turned his back, retrieving his plate from the cupboard. Mariku scoffed. "Someone woke up on the bitch side of the bed."

"Don't sit on my counter," Bakura said lightly, sparing the disgruntled Egyptian a superior glance. Mariku narrowed his eyes, before turning to Malik to whine at him for letting him fall. Malik didn't deny the accusation; rather, he sipped at his black coffe, eyeing Bakura curiously.

"Sleep well?"

"Like a dream," Bakura grumbled, not bothering to look up from his meal. Ham and eggs, with powdery biscuits and whipped butter. Ryou had gone all out. "I'd ask the same, but I know _exactly _how well you slept, thank you."

The statement made Malik's brows furrow in confusion, but before he could ask, Mariku shoved him in the arm, nearly making him spill his coffee.

"I need money," the teen demanded.

"What the hell for?"

"Lunch and shit." Mariku shrugged. Malik gave him a long look, sighed shortly, and turned to Bakura.

"How much does lunch cost?"

Bakura raised a brow. "Same as any other school."

This answer seemed to frustrate Malik, and he looked between the two teens, lingering on Mariku before he fished his wallet from his back pocket. Bakura was about to return his full attention to his meal when he saw the twenty dollar bill in Malik's hand.

"What, is he getting the surf and turf?" Malik turned to him, blinking. "It's a _school lunch_."

Mariku scowled in Bakura's direction as the older Ishtar wordlessly pulled out a five instead. Bakura scowled right back; really, how could Malik not know how much a school lunch cost? Ryou had mentioned that the Egyptians had had a rather unusual upbringing, but Bakura knew for a fact that they'd attended school at _some _point. Mariku, however, didn't take kindly to being short-changed, and in a flash of quick muscle he snatched the butter knife off the table and pinned Malik to the counter, holding it up to his throat.

Bakura's heart nearly stopped.

But Mariku was grinning, and Malik honestly just looked irritated. "I want that money, bitch," Mariku snickered, squeezing Malik across the chest to emphasize his point.

"Get off," Malik muttered, eyes flicking to Bakura, who was staring unblinkingly. "Or you're getting nothing."

"You want me to starve to death?" Mariku pouted. "I'm a growing boy. And I sure as fuck eat more than Twiggy Pop over there." He nodded to Bakura, whose eyes narrowed. He ate _plenty_, thank you.

When Malik made no move to retrieve his wallet, Mariku tightened the grip he had around Malik's chest, jabbing playfully with the butter knife. The motion didn't draw blood, but it made Bakura's pulse quicken nonetheless.

"Don't try to be a hero now," Mariku cautioned in his best tough-guy voice, to which Malik rolled his eyes, raising his hands in surrender. However, just as Mariku went to fish out his wallet, a horrified cry rang out through the kitchen. The knife hit the floor with a dull clatter, and Malik pushed Mariku away, going to the doorway where now Ryou stood, frozen, wide eyed and pale as a ghost.

"Ryou, it's okay, he was just fucking around."

"J-Jesus... Jesus Christ." Ryou gasped, clutching his chest. He tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. "That... scared the hell out of me."

"Nice going, dipshit," Bakura muttered to Mariku, who was standing awkwardly still, obviously dreading punishment. "Give him a heart attack, why don't you."

"It's not even sharp, what the fuck..." Mariku mumbled, shifting to lean back against the counter. "Not my fault..."

At Malik's teasing smile, Ryou finally seemed to regain control over himself. He laughed fully then, pressing his shaking fingers to his brow. Malik laughed too, loudly, and recieved a light shove in the shoulder.

"Sorry, guys," Ryou smiled sheepishly. "It's just... it's early. Mariku, did you get something to eat?"

The Egyptian teen refused to meet the bright, questioning stare, opting to let his gaze fall to the knife on the floor. It really was dull, of course he had been joking. Now Malik was going to be mad at him, or worse, fed up with him. He _hated _that. And it wasn't his fault. If anything, it was Ryou's, screaming like a bitch... _Did you get something to eat? _

_Fuck you, you pussy shit. Like you care if I eat._

"I gotta go," Malik said, pulling his moto jacket on and pocketing his keys. "Later, Mariku. Bakura. Have fun at school."

Both teens rolled their eyes, grumbling. Malik rolled his eyes right back and turned to Ryou, who smiled. Abrupt as his entrance had been, Malik hadn't really gotten a chance to take the sight of him in; he'd never seen the older man in his bathrobe and slippers, eyes puffy and pink with sleep, but Malik supposed that the time for glamour in their relationship had passed. He found he didn't mind, and smiled back.

"Later, Ryou."

Bakura's face scrunched up in distaste as the Egyptian dipped his head, unabashedly kissing his father right there in the kitchen. Right there in front of him. And as they pulled apart, Malik had the nerve to look wholly and infuriatingly pleased with himself. Ugh, and he was eating breakfast... Mariku seemed equally discontented, scowling at Malik's confident back as he exited. Ryou, however, seemed _quite_ contented, gazing fondly after his swaggering young lover.

"Okay," he chirped, turning to face the disgusted teens with an ineffable brightness. "Shall we? It's past seven."

If possible, their scowls deepened further, nearly making Ryou snicker with a rare sadistic glee.

"Come now, it's the first day. Don't want to be late!"

* * *

The entire car ride, Mariku kicked at Bakura's foot.

The _entire _car ride.

Now, this bit of sophomoric bullying could have been ignored, tolerated for the duration of the trip... but Bakura was wearing canvas sneakers, and Mariku had thick-soled, steel-toed, genuine military combat boots. When they struck certain points of his foot Bakura nearly winced; but Mariku wanted his attention, and he wasn't about to get it. He didn't care what the psycho had to say anyway.

When they pulled up before the school, Ryou's send-off was blessedly short. He'd learned that Bakura was past the age of wanting anything to do with his words of encouragement, so he merely gave him a confident smile and a pat on the shoulder as he slunk out of the car. Had Bakura turned back, he would have seen his father's little wave; instead, he fixed his surly gaze forward, intent on abandoning Mariku as soon as possible.

"Nice school," the Egyptian teen muttered from behind him, scanning the building in a sort of reluctant wonder. Bakura had never really considered it, but it was a _very _nice school, among the highest scoring and most well-funded in the region. Of course, Ryou knew the details better than he did, but it didn't matter to Bakura; he excelled in school, and he didn't even try. He'd have done just as well anywhere else.

However, it was a pleasing campus. Wide-reaching oak trees, pine trees, apple trees by the parking lot, their leaves already tipped in savory reds and oranges. The lawn was lush and green, cool under Bakura's back whenever he chose to lay on it, passing away the time while his inferiors struggled in class. The building itself was a rich red brick, old but in immaculate repair, colonial Georgian style, as Bakura had been informed when Ryou'd selected the school. Whatever style it was, it was a school, as far as Bakura was concerned.

Mariku, however, had clearly never seen one like it.

For the second time that day, Bakura was reminded that the Ishtars had lived a very different life—possibly several—before coming to live with him. It was almost quaint, really, the way Mariku gawked at his surroundings; it also made it very easy to lose him. Once through the doors, Bakura weaved quickly through the mulling, thin crowd, not once looking back.

It wasn't until lunch period when Bakura saw Mariku again.

"You bitch!" Mariku barked, but he was smirking as he snagged Bakura by the back of the shirt, making him yelp and nearly drop his tray. "You were supposed to show me where my classes are and shit!"

"I thought you could figure it out," Bakura grumbled, yanking himself away and inadvertently elbowing a passing girl. When she turned to complain and saw who had struck her, she clamped her mouth shut and kept walking. Mariku raised a brow.

"Yeah, well I didn't," he said finally, "hey, let's sit down, I'm starving."

Bakura paused, eyes darting to the corner where he usually sat, alone and undisturbed... sighing, he followed Mariku, dropping down across from him.

The other's tray was comically stacked, exclusively with terrible foods. Fried chicken, pizza, two corndogs, onion rings _and_ fries... perhaps Mariku really _did _need twenty dollars for lunch. Bakura wondered only for a moment where he got the money; surely some poor freshman was wandering about with a black eye and an empty wallet. "Glad to see you managed to feed yourself on your tight budget."

"Yeah, no thanks to you," Mariku huffed, tearing at his chicken. Bakura did the same, and they ate in ravenous silence until their hunger lost its urgent edge. Taking a swig of his Coke, Mariku fished a crumpled half-piece of paper from his back pocket.

"My schedule," he said, tossing the balled-up paper at Bakura. The white-haired boy snatched it from the air; quick reflexes, Mariku noted. "Should be on the fifth period by now."

"Wait," Bakura's eyes narrowed, "you didn't go to _any _of your classes? Just because I didn't show you where they were?"

Mariku grinned.

Bakura snarled, tossing the paper back. "Fine, you leech. I'll escort you about, but this is for today only. You've invaded my house, I'd rather not have to spend _literally _the whole day with you."

Returning the paper to his pocket, Mariku's grin broadened. "Thanks, bro. It means a lot to me."

"_Ugh_," Bakura shuddered. "Don't _ever _call me that again."

"What?" Mariku giggled. "We're brothers now. By marriage. Get used to it, _bro_."

"You call me that one more time and you'll be eating the rest of that chicken through a straw," Bakura snapped, folding his arms across his chest. He took a moment to look around the cafeteria, surveying the newest additions to the student body. He sniffed; nothing terribly interesting. His gaze fell back on Mariku, who stuck out like a violently sore thumb, and the corner of his mouth twitched up cruelly.

"You know, I'm not exactly a popular kid," Bakura smirked, drawing Mariku's eye up. "I don't suppose you are either. But you really couldn't find anyone else to sit with?"

Mariku blinked. Then he laughed, setting his food down. "Are you kidding? I could sit wherever the fuck I wanted in this pussy ass school. I could have these bitches eating out of the palm of my hand."

"I'm sure," Bakura said airily, smirk widening. "Bitches just can't get enough of you, obviously. Look at them all, stumbling over each other to get to you."

Mariku pushed his meal aside, leaning forward on his elbows. "Are you questioning my game, _brother dear?_"

Bakura snorted at the nickname, but kept his chin up all the same. "I'd like to see what it is that you call game. I can't imagine anyone more repulsive."

Mariku's grin was giddy as his hand struck the table. "Oh, it's on now." He pushed himself up onto his feet, and right away began scanning the tables for... a target? A victim? Bakura merely leaned forward to sip his tomato juice, waiting for Mariku to select his prey. He wasn't quite sure how he'd initiated this little game, but it was the first time since he'd stepped into this godforsaken building that he wasn't bored.

"That one," Mariku beamed, pointing to a plain, quiet-looking girl who was sitting alone a few tables away. Bakura watched with sadistic amusement as the Egyptian zeroed in on his unfortunate target, noting the way she jumped when he dropped into the seat beside her.

Sure enough, the girl's shock didn't exactly subside when she saw who had come to sit with her. Bakura was no expert on the art of romance—not that he cared to be—but he knew that, to a girl, Mariku must be _terrifying. _Admittedly he was handsome, but his edgy, erratic demeanor did more than enough to negate his physical charms, as far as Bakura was concerned. And as the girl shrank in on herself just a bit, he was quite sure she would agree.

But Mariku was relentless. The further she backed away, the closer he got, until he practically had an arm wrapped around the poor girl. He was speaking with a constant cheeky grin now, and Bakura could only imagine what sort of filth was spewing from his mouth. Indeed, the girl was blushing, deeper the more that he talked... was she smiling? Bakura frowned, until he realized that it was a nervous expression, eyes cast down at the table. She drew in even further when Mariku ruffled her hair, like a child... blushed deeper when he patted her head, whispered in her ear, and then he was making his way back to Bakura, looking smug.

"Well, I stand corrected." Bakura smirked sarcastically, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest as Mariku took his seat. "_That _was your idea of game? She wouldn't go out with you without a switchblade and a gallon of mace."

"I wasn't looking for a date, smart one." Mariku said with a lascivious grin. Then he flicked his eyes in the direction of the girl he'd just spoken to. "Look. Do you know what that look says?" Bakura humored him and looked; somewhat surprisingly, the girl was staring at Mariku's back, brows tense, a combination of perplexed and entranced. "It says she wants me. If you don't believe me, I'll prove it."

Bakura assessed the girl a moment longer before he scoffed. "First of all, I don't believe you, though I couldn't really care less. Second of all, what are you going to do, have a roll about on the lunch table?"

"Would you like to see that?" Mariku waggled his eyebrows, not even waiting for an answer before he leaned in, hands folded together. "Let me tell you something about girls. Okay, no, it's not a hundred percent, but ninety nine percent of them are just... bitches. Deep down. Every single fucking one. And they all know_ what_ they want." Bakura gave him a flat look, _you're serious. _Mariku went on. "It's just a matter of knowing how they want it. Shy bitch here," he nodded backward towards the girl he'd talked to, who was admittedly still glancing over, "probably wants it in a room with a door she can lock. That doesn't mean she doesn't want it, though. You tell me where I can find one, and I will bet you a hundred fucking dollars I can get her in there."

"...No." Bakura said firmly, looking away to bite into his sandwich. "You're disgusting, by the way."

"A hundred dollars, Bakuraaa..."

"No! I'd rather lose a hundred dollars than know you've copulated anywhere near me, anway. Or anywhere at all, for that matter. Ugh, I'm not hungry anymore."

"Well excuse me, I didn't mean to dirty your delicate little mind."

"Delicate?" Bakura scoffed, tempted to laugh at the suggestion. "Let me tell _you _something, you have no _idea _what goes on in my mind."

"Oohh, scary. As far as I can tell, you seem like a puss. Just like mommy. Fuck!" Mariku's eyes widened at the memory. "That was so funny this morning, what a fucking pansy!" Mariku burst into giggles, oblivious to Bakura's rapidly rising temper.

"If you have a problem with Ryou, you're more than welcome to move out." Bakura snarled, shooting to his feet. His lips split in a vicious grin. "Oh, can't be away from your precious uncle. What would you jack off to without him?"

Infuriatingly, Mariku only laughed. "Okay, sorry, sorry. Sit down. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"Fuck you, you twat."

"Anytime, sweets." Mariku smirked, drawing a glare. He continued nonetheless. "But really. We have to get along, don't we? We live in the same goddamn house." Bakura said nothing, but there was nothing really he could say; even if he desperately wanted to disagree, the fact was there. "Plus, I don't know where the fuck any of my classes are."

"You couldn't have asked somebody?"

"I'm shy," Mariku deadpanned, receiving a blank stare in response. People around them were starting to pack up their things; the bell must have rung. He fished his crumpled schedule back out from his back pocket. "Hey, what do you have next? I have... Physical Education. Sounds nasty."

"That's gym, idiot." Bakura scoffed, hefting his bag onto his shoulder. "And I have it too, so just follow me. Do try to keep up."

"Do try to keep up," Mariku imitated in the Queen's English, trailing after Bakura and snickering.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Mariku excelled in gym.

They'd started the class with pushups, in an effort to gauge everyone's current level of fitness... it seemed as though the Egyptian teen could have gone on doing them for hours, because he didn't so much as break a sweat after doing ninety. _Ninety _pushups, and the teacher had told him that was enough, followed by a wave of hoots and cheers from the other students. Mariku had shrugged, cockily, and that had done it. When the class was to split into groups for basketball, he was made one of the captains.

Bakura had observed all this with a quiet, stewing bitterness. He didn't excel in strength, and yes he was quite thin, but he was by no means a poor athlete. Quick on his feet, scrappy, he'd always done just fine in gym... however, he wasn't often anyone's first pick for teams. As it were, he had a bad reputation at school, difficult to talk to and notoriously cruel. There were a fair number of students who had been with him since elementary; one of the downsides of a small school district. These students recalled vividly the day that Meni Bakura had been called to the office and informed that his mother, grandmother and aunt had all passed in a car accident, father critically wounded. They recalled the way he'd waited, strikingly indifferent, for his grandfather to pick him up and drive him to the hospital... they recalled the way he'd barely blinked during the assembly held in his family's honor. That day had marked Bakura as a freak, heartless, _creepy,_ and he'd not made a friend since. Which was just fine with him.

But this being picked last for the team nonsense; it irked him. He hated being sandwiched between the fat kids and the pencil-necked geeks, as though he was a comparable candidate. So it came as somewhat of a surprise to him when he was picked first, by Mariku no less.

The other students had offered their opinion up right away. "No, dude, that kid is weird."

"Yeah, I know," Mariku had replied, a wide grin on his face, "I live in his house."

This had called for some explanation, and Mariku had explained in no uncertain terms that his uncle was banging Bakura's dad. That, of course, had merited even _more _explanation, which Bakura had cut off with a feral snarl. Thankfully, even the larger boys were hesitant to cross Bakura, and the subject was unceremoniously dropped.

Half an hour later found Bakura stalking into the locker room, still steaming over the slight to his pride. He heard the rest of his team follow afterward, sucking up to Mariku like they were his twelve disciples.

"Dude, you should go to tryouts, for sure."

"Kay."

"You used to play street ball?"

"Yeah, in the summer and shit."

"That's badass, did you, like, do you know any tricks?"

"A couple," Mariku was smirking as he sidled up next to Bakura, clapping him on his bare shoulder. It made a startlingly loud sound. "Hey, good hustle out there."

Bakura shrugged away violently, slamming the door of his locker. He'd hoped to be in the shower before Mariku got back at all, but at least he had a head start... when he turned to leave, however, Mariku's hand was on his shoulder again, gripping this time.

"What's up?"

"You know damn well what's up. Piss off."

"What, was I supposed to make something up?"

Bakura turned to regard him, lip curled; he observed that the other boys had dispersed, seemingly repelled by his presence, though a few were stealing curious glances. He made sure to scowl at them.

"You could have said they were 'dating', or some other nonsense." He muttered bitterly. Ugh, it wasn't even that everyone knew that Ryou was gay now (which, as far as Bakura knew, wasn't even entirely true), but the way Mariku had said it... Malik _fucking _Ryou, as if Bakura hadn't been forced to acknowledge the fact enough last night... he flinched when the hand on his shoulder left, only to strike firmly across his towel-clad ass a moment later. He barked, whipping his head to Mariku incredulously, and was met with a shit-eating grin.

"You need to loosen up, Bakura," Mariku snickered, "that's your problem. What, are you gonna shower with that on?"

Bakura flicked his eyes to his towel, and then back up to Mariku. "I'm not taking it off with you around, that's for damn sure."

"Wait, you _are? _Are you fucking kidding me?" Mariku's fist struck the locker as he went into a fit of giggles. "Holy... you are _hilarious. _Gotta hide your vagina?"

Bakura flushed with anger, but refused to answer such an inane question. Mariku, however, took it as an affirmative, and started pinching his stomach a bit too hard to be playful.

"Let me see!"

"No, fuck off!"

"I'm gonna see it eventually, just get over yourself!"

"_No!_"

Bakura winced when he was gripped particularly hard in a particularly tender spot of his ribs, and in that split second Mariku darted forward. The rush of cold air registered before his sudden nakedness did, and Bakura could only balk at Mariku, who had whipped away his towel with a wide eyed, feral smile.

Wide eyes, focused unabashedly on his bare crotch.

Bakura felt the heat rise to his face, anger curling around each and every one of his organs as Mariku ogled him. "Give it back!"

"Oh, you can have it," Mariku conceded, tossing it at his chest. Bakura had it secured around his waist in a second. "I can see why you want it. Not much going on down there, huh?"

"I'll kill you, you shitbox," Bakura snarled and turned on his heel, intent on washing the trail of Mariku's gaze off of his skin. His embarrassment was only amplified when he realized that many of the locker room's other occupants had been watching the exchange, but a quick flash of his darkest scowl made them go back to their own business. Against his better judgement, though, Bakura wondered if they planned to tell their own parents the news about Ryou... the scowl deepened effortlessly on his fair face, and he was rather satisfied at the scared looks he received as he pushed past the other boys. One even yelped when he rounded the corner.

That was more like it.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Don't own Yugioh. It's angstshipping time guys hrrng it's so fluffy though

**CHAPTER 4**

"Welcome back!" Ryou chirped brightly, looking up from the documents scattered across the kitchen table to see his dour looking son. "How was school?"

"It was _school._"

"Any interesting classes?"

"No."

"Any... boring classes?"

Bakura stared at him dully.

Ryou sighed; teenagers. He stood. "Fine, fine. I've got tea on, would you like some?"

"No."

"Well, all... right then."

Ryou paused halfway between the table and the counter to watch his son stalk off, his irritation obvious in the set of his shoulders. Ryou wasn't positive what had brought on this mood, but it didn't look like Bakura wanted to talk about it anytime soon... they weren't much of a talking family, anyway. Bakura would rather have his teeth pulled then have a heart to heart with his father, and Ryou simply preferred to keep things to himself. At the moment, though, he felt a strange, guilty tug in his chest; he was reaching for the phone before he knew it, pausing only a moment before punching in a number he knew by heart.

It rung, four times. Ryou almost hoped it went to voicemail... what was he calling about again, anyway? The thought left him when he heard a click, the dull roar of movement and machinery, and Malik's voice.

"Hey."

"Malik! Hi." Despite himself, Ryou smiled. "How's... work?"

"...It's fine. I'm on break. What's up?"

What _was _up, exactly? Ryou's eyes flicked about the room, landing on the refrigerator. "I um... just... I wasn't sure what to make for dinner. What do you feel like?"

"Lasagna."

He couldn't help but laugh; there had barely been a pause. "Why lasagna?"

"Someone just heated some up, it smells good." Malik cleared his throat. His voice was husky, worn from yelling over the din of heavy machinery all day. "Ugh, I'm hungry."

"I think I can do lasagna. When will you be home?"

"Hour and a half? Wait, this clock is off... either way, like, six. Six thirty."

"Okay," Ryou leaned against the counter, fiddling idly with the telephone cord. "...how's work?"

"Ryou, you _just_ asked me that."

He pushed off the counter, ears heating up, as Malik chuckled on the other side of the line. The sound brought a smile to his face, and he leaned back again, sighing. "Well fine then, I'll let you go... I'll have to get started dinner anyway, _somebody_ had a very specific request. Oh, I've got to put the laundry in the dryer..." Malik started snickering again at that."What?"

"You make a good wife, Ryou."

_Now _his ears were red; he rolled his eyes, grinning as he could tell Malik was. "Oh, shut up."

* * *

At six twenty Malik turned the corner into Ryou's cul de sac, the roar of his motorcycle piercing the tranquil quiet. He spotted Mariku standing at the edge of the porch and squinted, not quite sure if his first assumption had been correct. His heart dropped when he realized it had; the teen was definitely urinating off the side of the porch and onto the driveway.

Malik cut the engine with a vicious yank; he was too tired for this.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" His strained voice cut off Mariku's cheery greeting, anger only barely abated when the latter tucked his dick back into his jeans. "What if Ryou's neighbors saw you?"

"Oh, no, what if the neighbors saw?" Mariku raised his hands, rolling his eyes dramatically. When Malik's expression didn't change, he smiled down at him, as if _he_ were being silly... "Chill. I had to go, and Bakura locked himself in the goddamn bathroom."

"Why did he-" Then, struck by a sudden barrage of awful possibilities, Malik's eyes widened. "..._Why?_"

"For some reason, he doesn't like me."

Eyes still wide, Malik stepped quickly up onto the porch, focused on Mariku. "You didn't."

"I didn't!" Again, he held up his hands, this time in genuine surrender. Malik's entire body relaxed, hand going to his forehead to massage his now throbbing temples. "I don't fucking know why, honestly. Boy's on the rag."

"Okay, come on," Malik sighed, nodding towards the door. Mariku tailed after him, placing his hands on Malik's shoulders and rubbing idly at them with his thumbs; the muscles were painfully tense.

Malik stopped before the door to the adjoining bathroom in Bakura's room, taking a cursory glance of the layout; one side, obviously Bakura's, was peppered with oddities, an old trunk, and a set of suspiciously lifelike preserved body parts. The other side was bare, but for a pile of dark clothing on the floor and the gym bag he'd given Mariku when the other started showing an interest in exercising. As if realizing their presence for the first time, Malik shrugged away the teen's hands, and rapped sharply on the door. "Hey, Bakura."

"Oh, sod off!"

"Just...come out, okay? This is ridiculous."

The weary tone of his voice seemed to do the trick, because the door unlocked and opened just enough to reveal Bakura's scowling face, cords dangling from his ears and the buzz of his heavy music clearly audible. Malik met his blazing eyes with a calm, almost bored expression; they stared at eachother for about twenty seconds, before Malik's headache decided to make itself more urgent. He groaned, running his fingers through his hair. Bakura watch the pale gold fringe fall back into Malik's eyes and staunchly refused to feel guilty.

"Look, this isn't working, obviously. Let's do this like adults. Okay?" At Bakura's suspicious glare, he offered a pleading glance. "Will you come out here?"

"...Fine."

Bakura swung the door open, only acknowledging Mariku by stepping pointedly around him, and crossed the room to drop moodily onto his bed. Malik followed, taking a seat on Mariku's and leaning forward; Mariku sat beside him, leaning back.

"Okay, Bakura. What's your problem with Mariku?"

"_Really_?" Bakura barked, folding his arms over his chest. "You _really _have to ask?"

"He's scared of me." Mariku offered, prodding Malik's shin with his foot.

"In your dreams!"

"Cut it out." Malik snapped when Mariku continued to poke at him. The teen drew his foot back, pouting. "Okay, obviously you're not scared of him, good for you. So, what is it?"

"...He's irritating?" Bakura muttered, as if this was a given. Malik conceded to that with a shrug, making Mariku start prodding his leg again. "I don't like sharing my space. This isn't rocket science, _Malik_."

"Yeah, _Malik_," Mariku parrotted, digging his toes into the underside of Malik's knee.

The older Egyptian winced, swatting at him as if he was a mosquito and trying to keep focused on Bakura, who regarded the interaction with one arched eyebrow. "Okay, fine. That makes sense. You want him to stay in a different room?"

"That would be ideal, yes."

"Fuck you, bitch!" Mariku turned to Bakura, jabbing a finger in his direction. The pale teen bared his teeth, and Mariku stuck his tongue out; for the second time, Bakura was forced to notice that it was unusually long. Then Mariku turned away, planting his chin on Malik's shoulder to whine right in his ear. "Where am I going to sleep? This sucks, he's being mean to me."

"Would you cut that out?" Malik shoved him away with such force that Mariku toppled halfway off the bed, spreading out his long limbs to steady himself. "You can sleep on the couch. It's not his fault you make him uncomfortable."

"Oh, poor widdle Bakuwa is uncomfortable!" Mariku cocked his head Bakura's way; leaned back as he was on his elbows, legs spread wide, he looked positively lascivious. A cold trickle ran down Bakura's spine. "I thought you weren't scared of me?"

"I'm _not_!" Bakura shot up, snatching his backpack from beside his bedside table. He'd had enough of this little chat. "Fuck it, sleep in here, I don't care. Just don't bother me."

"You're no fun," Mariku huffed, falling back so that he was lying down now, feet dangling. "What am I supposed to do, stare at the wall?"

"Look, this is Bakura's space." Malik sighed, sensing that the conversation was drawing to a close and leaning forward, hands planted on his knees. About time; he'd had his fill of squabbling teenagers for now. He turned to Mariku, giving him one last firm stare. "We're guests, got it? Do what he says."

"Do what he says?" Mariku turned onto his side, intent on jabbing Malik in the waist; the other was quicker, already on his feet. "I'm not the one who's pussy whipped, I don't have to do shit."

"Ugh, forget it."

Bakura eyed the older Egyptian, his lank and weary posture as he went to the door, hand pressed to his forehead, the very picture of _fuck this._ He felt frustration brewing in his throat; oh, he was certain that Mariku was going to take this conversation to heart, with a beacon of authority like _that _on the job.

"Thanks for taking the time, Malik. I feel ever so much better."

"Anytime."

And with that he was gone. Bakura stood for a moment, rolling his eyes and letting them land on the other occupant of the room. Mariku was staring absently at the door, so Bakura hefted his backpack onto his shoulder, and headed back into the bathroom. Petty, yes, but at least this time he didn't lock himself in...

Mariku, on the other hand, remained fixed lazily on the door—or rather, the crack under it, where he could still see Malik's shoes, and heard the distinct thump of what was probably his head falling back to rest against the heavy oak.

* * *

Ryou had gone upstairs as soon as the lasagna was in the oven, rather pleased with himself. He'd dug out the recipe book, which he didn't use often... he and Bakura had a few staples that they liked, and he knew how to make all of them by heart. They were by no means picky eaters, but it was nice, this time, to try something new. He'd forgotten how much he liked to make things.

Now he stood before the bathroom sink, organizing a daunting number of bottles and pills for the week. If he were to be honest, he wouldn't be able to say how many exactly there were, even though he took them twice daily; it was a detail that he was loathe to acknowledge. To make matters worse, the numbers changed... sometimes he was doing better, oftentimes he was doing worse. He'd had a reaction to this medication, he needed another for the side effects. Different brands, different shapes and sizes... it seemed he had to be re-educated every time he stepped into the doctor's office. Nonetheless, he knew what each one was and what it was for, when it came down to it. But that was all he cared to know.

Malik had barely crossed the threshold into Ryou's bedroom before he'd collapsed onto the bed. It was a queen size, bigger than Malik was accustomed to, and piled high with pillows that didn't match and a quilt that was obviously ancient. It smelled like an old book, and was almost orgasmically comfortable. The young Egyptian's eyes slid shut.

"Malik?"

Ryou's voice. Malik rubbed at his eyes before forcing them back open and glancing to the bathroom doorway, where Ryou was peering curiously at him, fiddling with all his bottles. He was dressed brightly today, a loose yellow jumper and navy cords. On the pale man, the ensemble reminded Malik of a teddy bear or rabbit, the ones in the windows of upper class stores, downtown stores... he looked so... _comfortable_. Suddenly aware of his own restricting clothing, Malik shifted onto his elbows to kick off his boots, which landed with a heavy thump on the carpet.

"When did you get home?"

"Couple minutes ago." Malik pulled his jacket off, tossing it carelessly to the floor with his boots and rolling his aching shoulders. "I was trying to talk to Mariku and Bakura." His back gave a loud pop, drawing a pleased groan from his throat. Ryou's gaze followed the movement of his strong upper body, visible through the worn white t-shirt... he set the bottle in his hand down on the counter with the others, rather interested in joining his young lover on the bed.

"..._Trying _to, huh?" Ryou offered Malik a wry smile, settling onto the edge of the bed to toe off his house shoes."What about?"

Malik scoffed, pressing his fingers to his eyes again. "Just- they're butting heads. I don't know." He turned his head to regard Ryou, who was eyeing him with that same knowing smile. "It's hard to have a conversation when Mariku's there. It drives me crazy." Ryou settled onto one elbow, lying on his side beside the grumbling Egyptian. "Pisses me off." Ryou's eyes, so full of warmth and humor... Malik couldn't stay angry. He settled for crossing his arms over his chest, staring at the ceiling with a frown. "...I'm hungry."

"Dinner will be ready soon," Ryou offered, eyeing Malik's petulant profile with barely restrained amusement. "I just came up to get my pills."

At the mention of them, Malik turned to note the multitude of little tablets pooled in Ryou's hand. He knew that his older lover was in poor health, but he'd only seen him take his pills two or three times, though he knew Ryou took them at least twice a day. He'd always been curious about them, and he scooted closer, getting up on his elbow to face Ryou and cradling the pale hand with his own.

Blue ones, red and white ones, teardrop shaped ones and little square ones. There were at least a dozen pills, each drawing Malik's eye like a jewel. "All of those?"

"Oh, there's more where that came from."

"They're colorful, aren't they?" Malik leaned in closer, so that his head was nearly at Ryou's chest, hair tickling his neck.

Ryou chuckled down at the blonde head, the unabashed curiosity. "An unending delight for the eyes, yes."

"Shit off, that one has a heart on it!" Malik's face turned up to meet his with a wide, wicked smile. "Are you popping E without me, darling?"

"Never, darling," Ryou assured him, "that's for my heart."

"You don't say." Malik snickered, plucking up the little white tablet and leaning back to appraise it. "What is it?"

"It's an ARB."

"Which stands for?"

"Angiotensin receptor blocker."

Malik frowned just a bit, involuntarily. He hated not knowing what words meant, hated it twice as much when he was caught. "What does it do?"

"It... um. Well, it...Shut up!" Ryou giggled when the Egyptian's lip curled into a sly grin. "It... blocks... angiotensin receptors." Malik's grin widened, on eyebrow raised. Ryou shoved at him, making him laugh. "I take it and my heart doesn't fail, happy?"

Malik's smile was unrelenting, straight white teeth catching his bottom lip. "Do they have one for your brain?"

That made Ryou roll his eyes and shove him again, but this time Malik caught his wrist and drew him forward, pulling him off the support of his elbow and landing him face first in the quilt. Ryou squabbled a bit, worried that he'd drop his pills... Malik only laughed, pulling the smaller man to lay on top of him and wrapping his arms around him. He was soft and light, remarkably so; in the bright sweater and corduroy pants, it really was quite like hugging a teddy bear.

Ryou relented his struggles with a coy smirk, leaning up to peck Malik on the corner of his mouth. Before his lover could turn his head to make the kiss more interesting, though, Ryou was hefting himself up and sitting on the edge of the bed, intent on taking his pills before they were scattered to the four corners of the earth. Malik watched him lazily, the grace of his dexterous fingers as they plucked up the glass from the bedside table, the movement of his throat when he swallowed, the little shudder that spoke of a bitter aftertaste. His eyes lidded further when Ryou settled back down, closer this time; he rested a hand on the older man's hip, stroking idly with his thumb.

"What did you do today?"

Ryou loved when Malik spoke softly; it drew him closer. "I talked to a client. A new one, he's interested in some of the Al-Kutaifa texts. He had the... _the _hardest time with the name." Ryou giggled at the memory. "Dutch fellow. My god, the Dutch accent, it just... give me the giggles."

"Why?"

"It's funny sounding."

A smirk. "_Your _accent is funny sounding."

"Mature, Malik," Ryou muttered, sighing in contentment when the hand at his hip moved up to stroke lightly at his ribcage, then back down. "Very mature." His eyes slid shut when Malik pulled him closer, so that his hand could run up and down Ryou's thin back, the movement making the smaller man's chest swell with pleasant feelings. He cracked his eyes open to regard the Egyptian, who was watching him, cat-like. "I thought you liked my accent."

Malik licked his lip. "Oh, I do."

They kissed slowly, languidly, but the pressure of Malik's mouth against his drew Ryou flush up against him, feeling the soothing heat of his body. He was always so _cold_, cardigans over jumpers, jackets over cardigans... but this warmth, another person's warmth, penetrated to the center. He could lie here for hours, kissing Malik, being held by him and holding him.

The fluttering in his chest was a lot like what he imagined to be "love," but Ryou knew not to mention it. No good could come of it, and it wasn't as though anything would change if Malik knew... they were already living together, which was _much _farther than Ryou had ever thought their relationship would go. Still, he loved this, having Malik here, knowing that he would have him at night and wake up to him in the morning. It was only the first day, but the fact that Ryou had had someone to call, someone to _when will you be home_... Ryou groaned as a hand slipped under his loose jumper, splaying long fingers across his lower back, sighed as a mouth pressed firmly at his jaw, down his neck.

Yes, he could enjoy what they had, just like this.

"Thanks," Ryou breathed, barely drawing Malik's attention away from his neck. "For talking to them."

Malik paused, then looked up. "Mariku started it."

He went back to caressing Ryou's neck with his mouth and his back with his sly hands. Ryou wrapped his arms around his back in return, breathing deeply. Malik could act like it didn't mean anything, and maybe it didn't to him... but Ryou knew better. He knew how very selfish the Egyptian was. The fact that he'd cared enough about keeping the peace in Ryou's home to try and talk two unruly teenagers into making nice... Ryou urged Malik back up so they were face to face, drawing him back into a kiss. When the younger went to deepen it, though, Ryou pulled away, shifting downward on the bed.

Malik swallowed. "Wait," Ryou looked up, hands on the Egyptian's belt buckle. Malik was frowning, but his voice was husky with want, "I just worked eight hours. Let me take a shower or something..."

Ryou smiled coyly, cocking an eyebrow. _Is that all? _Before Malik could object further, he made quick work of his belt and zipper, pressing a closed-mouth kiss to the bulge in his boxer briefs.

"Seriously, let me just..." Malik's protests were caught in his throat as he groaned, face scrunching up in pleasure. Putty in his lover's skillful hands, his thought left him, replaced by a pleasant haze.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This chapter is 2/10 would not write again but hey important backstory! Thanks to everyone who's reviewing, it makes it so much more fun to put this story out knowing that you sweetums are interested in finding out what happens next!

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Chapter 5

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Despite his intelligence, Ryou Bakura had never been an exemplary student.

His teachers, whenever they got a chance to know him (the family travelled extensively for his father's work), labelled him a daydreamer. Indeed, he often spent classes completely tuned out, sketching aimlessly unless the subject was engaging to him. Math didn't hold much interest to Ryou; American History put him to sleep. When the class _did _catch his fancy, the teen could become very enthusiastic, animated even—it drove his teachers crazy. Ryou, you're smart, you're _so _smart, I _know _you can do better if you would just _try..._

His mother was a bit less lenient. She was a Japanese native, unlike his American-born father, and such poor performance was simply unacceptable. A sweet-natured woman, she would nearly tear her hair out trying to get through to her son; it hurt him to worry her, and he tried. Despite his complete lack of interest in school, he managed slightly-above average grades... and in his junior year, he was accepted to a slightly-above average private college. Come spring break, he found himself on a plane with his father (who had made time especially for the occasion), headed to the campus to see where he would be spending the next four years of his life.

Ryou met his roommates, three boys who seemed unnervingly mature to him despite being his own age. He toured the buildings, and immediately became enamored of the library, a modern, angular structure permeated with the perfume of yellowed pages. And as much as he opposed the idea, he spent the night in the dorms, meeting other students and pretending he fit in.

It was on that night, in the spring of 1987, that Ryou met Miho Nosaka.

They were the only two Japanese on their co-ed floor, and the girl had latched onto him immediately and without reservation. She babbled at him in high, flighty tones, seemingly not bothered when he didn't respond so long as he was within hearing range. Within a few hours of their meeting, Miho was infamous on the floor, and Ryou too by proxy... from day one they were a couple, according to everyone but him.

By the end of the visit, Ryou was exhausted, due in no small part to Miho; he had hardly gotten back home when she called him, going on about how much fun they'd apparently had, how much more would come freshman year. He didn't know how she'd gotten his number... that is, until his father confessed with a guilty grin that he may have had something to do with it. When his mother caught wind that there was finally a girl in her son's life, and oh, she's Japanese too? Is that her, ah, she's so _cute, _Ryou she's darling! The woman's eyes had been glittering with delight, and the deal had been sealed.

That summer, Miho wrote him every week.

In the fall, she called every day.

By winter, she had single-handedly (though not without some assistance from Ryou's mother) arranged to visit, though they lived on opposite sides of the country. She stayed for four days, and slept in his sister's room, giggling and chatting with her as if they were sisters themselves. Amane loved her, Ryou's mother _adored_ her, and both were teary-eyed when they brought her to the airport, though Ryou himself couldn't wait for Miho to be once again a thousand miles away.

_Several _thousand miles away, Malik Ishtar was born.

* * *

"Ryou..." Eyes fluttered and squeezed shut, resisting the voice calling them to open. "Ryou."

His name was repeated twice more before a firm hand grasped his shoulder and shook him slightly. Ryou woke fully with a start, sitting up when he saw the irritation on Malik's face and assuming himself to be the cause.

"What is it?"

"Just got off the phone with the vice principal over at the high school." Malik huffed, and Ryou relaxed just a bit. Shameful as it was, he was no stranger to such calls, and wasn't particularly alarmed to hear it. "She wants me to come in."

"Right now?" Ryou's brows drew together. "What for?"

"A 'talk'?" Malik ran his fingers through his hair, upper lip pulling up in a sneer at the prospect. Ryou shuffled into an upright position, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and seeking out his slippers with chilly toes.

"I'll go," he said softly, "I've talked to her a hundred times. It's a little odd that she wanted to have a conference-"

"I'm going." Malik said firmly, drawing Ryou's eyes to his face. At the curious expression, he huffed, "... I'm guessing it's Mariku's fault, anyway."

"How do you-"

"They got in a fight."

"With... eachother?"

Malik stared at Ryou, some unreadable tension in his face. Almost nervous, almost apologetic.

Ryou gave him a smile.

"I wouldn't be so sure it's his fault," he said, finding his slippers and grasping Malik's hand to pull himself up. "Meni is always getting into fights." The Egyptian responded immediately, helping Ryou to his feet, and feeling his irritation ebb when the thin hand in his squeezed warmly before they parted.

"Maybe she wants to meet me," Malik shrugged, slipping on his shoes "size me up. She seemed pretty intrigued when I picked up the phone."

"You do have a sexy phone voice," Ryou offered, playfully avoiding the incredulous stare that was tossed his way.

"I'm not the one who answers all breathy, Marilyn Monroe."

"It's called 'breathless'," Ryou giggled, "the phone is downstairs, I'm not exactly a sprinter, you know."

A quick peck on the side of his mouth, smirking against his pale skin.

"I'm going," Malik insisted, "eat something. And get dressed, it's almost three."

The statement caused Ryou to blink several times before groaning loudly; he'd missed some appointment or other, no doubt, and he practically dragged himself into the bathroom, muttering at his own chronic airheadedness. Malik rolled his eyes fondly, pulling his motorcycle jacket on and stuffing his keys in the pocket. After a moment's thought he fished them out, going instead to the bedside table for the keys to Ryou's sedan; after all, he'd be hauling the boys back with him. The domesticity of it sent a shiver down his spine.

* * *

It had been a long time since Malik had set foot in a school.

He was uncharacteristically self-conscious as he walked into the office, half expecting someone to call security on him; instead, he was led graciously by a red-faced older lady to the back office, where the vice principal's name was emblazoned in a small bronze placard. _Sharpe _was her name, and the one by which he planned to address her; something about being in a school made him feel like a child all over again, and calling the vice principal by her first name didn't even cross his mind.

He knocked once before entering, and the sight that greeted him threatened every impulse to roll his eyes. Mariku and Bakura were seated on a couch against the wall while the vice principal was at work at her desk, Mariku sprawled comically wide, snapping loudly at his gum, Bakura with his arms tight across his chest and a glowering scowl. They were the picture of teenage apathy; as Mrs. Sharpe rose to greet Malik, he found himself straightening his spine, as if height alone would make him seem more adult, more her peer than theirs.

"Thank you for coming so promptly," she said in a powerful, clipped voice as she shook his hand. "I hope I didn't call you away from work."

"No," and because he felt the need to prove that he had a job at all, he added, "I usually work nights."

She nodded and returned to her desk, and Malik realized that he didn't know where to sit. To his chagrin, she noticed his apprehension and got up to retrieve a chair from the other side of the room, dragging it to the center while he lingered ineffectually behind her. Mariku snickered.

Once everyone was seated, the vice principal began, in that same no-nonsense tone. "I understand that your families have just recently joined."

The statement seemed wrong for the situation, but Malik supposed it was more or less true. He nodded.

"Do Bakura and Mariku get along well at home?"

"Well enough," Malik answered without thinking, to which Bakura loudly scoffed. Malik resisted the urge to toss him a glare. "They don't fight or anything."

"But there's tension between them."

"... I guess."

The woman leaned forward and peered at him over her glasses, "Are you home often?"

"I don't see how that's any business of yours."

Malik had to restrain himself from cringing once the words left his mouth; Mrs. Sharpe leaned back, and was regarding him now with a curiosity that he didn't like. But he'd never taken well to authority figures when he was in high school, and he'd overestimated his ability to do so now. Worse still, he felt both teenagers' eyes on him, undoubtedly amused.

"I don't mean to pry into your personal life, Malik." Mrs. Sharpe said squarely, offering the smallest hint of a smile. "Rather, I'm surprised to here that they _don't _fight at home. Bakura fights often at school."

Malik smiled back, easing into the second chance she'd given him. "Yes, Ryou mentioned that the two of you are acquainted."

She chuckled, nodding.

"Can we go now?" Mariku piped up, drawing Malik's warning glare. "I don't see the point of this."

"Neither do I," Bakura agreed, addressing the woman directly, "you said yourself I'm always in here. Why did you need to call him?"

"Because this year I'm not tolerating it, Bakura." All trace of humor had left her face, and Mrs. Sharpe stared him down. "I've got no problem with you keeping to yourself, I excused you from public speaking, and I've been very lenient with you because you _are_ an excellent student. But the minute you start disrupting classes, _that _is a problem."

"You were fighting _during class?_" Malik turned directly to Mariku, who immediately turned to Bakura.

"He started it!"

"Oh, _I _started it, you were-"

"He called me dumb and shit!"

"_You _ruined my lab!" Bakura snapped, jaw clenched. "With your fucking around! I told you I didn't need a partner!"

Mariku scoffed. "I was just trying to be nice."

"Whatever the reason," Mrs. Sharpe cut in, a split second before Malik lost his patience, "the_ whole class_ will be redoing that lab. You'll get another shot at it. And may I suggest that this time, you find other partners." When the teenagers both averted their eyes from her piercing gaze, she turned to Malik, offering one more placid smile. "I'm going to let them off easy because it's only the second day, but I hope that you and Ryou will have a talk with them when they get home. Tell him I said hi."

Malik nodded curtly, rising to shake her hand again.

"Will do."

* * *

"Are you two _insane_?"

Malik had been silent on the walk back to Ryou's car; the second they pulled out onto the road, he exploded. Bakura shifted, somewhat embarrassed by the whole affair... he had, after all, royally lost his cool. He prided himself on his self control, his ability to goad his opponents until they were red with fury while he remained poker-faced. But when Mariku had all but forced his way into being his lab partner, and then proceeded to plow through the procedure with the attention span and grace of a six year old, Bakura had just... _snapped. _He'd barked insults that lacked his usual wit—dumbass, _retard—_and Mariku relished the excuse to fight. Actually _fight_, physically, the way that Bakura usually deemed himself to be above. He dodged blows, worked his opponents' strength against them, but he was never the one blindly flailing his limbs like some kind of frothing ape. Bakura was ashamed of how childish he'd let himself be, and sank further in his chair.

"What if you'd broken glass or started a fire or something? You could've-"

"We didn't break anything, chill," Mariku grumbled, staring out the window. In the rear-view mirror, Malik eyed him venomously.

"Mariku, I told you to leave Bakura alone. That includes at school, don't get in his face just to be a punk!"

"Hey, I was _trying _to do him a favor!" Mariku huffed, spreading his legs and crossing his arms over his chest. Whether it was intentional or not, his knee shoved Bakura's, making him flinch away. "The teacher says to find a partner and _this _bitch goes straight to the back of the room and sits down by himself in the fucking pity corner-"

"I _like _working alone, you idiot," Bakura growled, crossing his own arms. To his surprise, he caught Malik's eyes flicking over to him in the rear-view mirror.

"Don't call him that," he growled. An odd, incredulous croaking sound pealed from Bakura's throat.

"_Idiot?_" Of all the things he could take offense to... but Malik's eyes narrowed.

"Yes."

"He _just _called me a bitch, what am I supposed to do?"

"Maybe stop whining like one."

Bakura's eyes widened with indignation, caught in the trap; if he complained now, he would be playing right into Malik's hand. He had no choice but to fall silent, choosing to ignore Mariku's shit-eating grin on his left. He was exponentially more irritated at the fact that he'd been reprimanded, and for something so inoffensive... _idiot? _The insult had been PG at worst, and what right did Malik have, anyway? He was hardly older than them, and oh, if he thought he was going to get away with _disciplining _anyone but his own devil spawn in this fucked-up 'family'...

Bakura's scowl deepened, a flush creeping up his neck.

This silence stretched for ten minutes. It was around that time that Bakura realized that they were not, in fact, taking a different route home—they weren't heading towards his house at all. He shifted uncomfortably, tightening his arms over his chest, and spoke out in his snottiest voice.

"Do you even know where you're going?"

Malik eyed him coolly in the mirror. "I'm dropping you two off."

"Well, you're going completely the wrong way."

"I didn't say I was dropping you off at home." Malik smirked, and seemingly on a whim, he pulled off onto a sidestreet, coming to an abrupt halt before an unfamiliar storefront. Mariku, who had fallen into some sort of daze during the silence, sat up to look around, as Malik turned to face them. "This is your stop. Go on."

Bakura stared him in the face, trying to decipher the command. "Are you-"

"The bitching with you two has passed the point of acceptable. You're going to have a nice, long walk home-" Bakura's jaw dropped, how _dare _he "-and make nice." He turned to Mariku, nodding for him to get out. To Bakura's distress and disbelief, the teen merely shrugged, stepping out onto the sidewalk and waiting expectantly.

Wild brown eyes darted from one, to the other. These _insufferable _Egyptians. "If you think I'm walking, you're more of an idiot than he is."

"What did I say about calling him that?"

Bakura paused, taken off guard once again by the unexpected reprimand. He blinked once before his anger settled in his belly, bitter and acidic.

"I'm telling Ryou."

"Oh, don't be a baby." With a flippant gesture, Malik waved him off, brushing the threat away as if it was nothing. Then he added, flashing a very punchable smirk, "Is he really so scary, Bakura?"

Bakura's eyes narrowed. It was a cheap ploy to pull, digging at his pride; nonetheless, it stung him, and he relented with a snarl. Malik watched with infuriating satisfaction as the teen shuffled out of the car, crossing behind it and coughing as it kicked up exhaust, engine revving before speeding off.

And then he was standing on the sidewalk, stranded.

With _Mariku._

"So... do you know where we are?"

Bakura turned to him, raising a superior brow. "Just follow me."

They were a bit of a spectacle, walking together; Mariku, with his ridiculous mane and leering stare, odd looking no matter where he went if for his coloration alone... and Bakura, walking three paces ahead, long white hair in his scowling face and making no effort to hide his disdain for the boy trailing after him. Whether he knew it—or cared—Malik had dropped them off in a less favorable part of town. Nonetheless, they were left alone, even by the homeless men lying on spread, damp cardboard with hungry eyes.

"Don't take it personally."

They had gone at least five blocks before Mariku spoke, and out of context, Bakura had no idea what he was referring to. He turned, only to cast one eye at his 'companion.'

"Don't take what personally?"

"Him getting mad at you." Mariku shrugged, hands in his pockets. "For calling me stupid. He hates that. He's always hated that."

Ah. "How sweet," he drawled, and added as an afterthought, "I didn't peg him as particularly protective of you."

"He's not," Mariku snorted. "He just... doesn't like people calling me stupid. Or retarded. That _really _sets him off."

"I can't imagine why. It's not like you actually _are." _Bakura smirked icily._ "_...Are you?"

"Bitch," Mariku smirked back, tossing his gaze skyward, and then letting it fall back to the street, sidelong and pointedly away from the other teen. The silence stretched a beat before he spoke again.

"It took me a long time to figure out how to talk."

Bakura glanced back, brow raised.

"Really."

Mariku shrugged again, gaze still focused idly on the street. "Yeah. I had problems with it... I don't know, I don't remember it very well. That whole time was pretty shitty." He shook his bangs from his eyes, the movement barely affecting the stiff, wiry strands. "I was a messed up kid."

"That's hardly surprising."

Mariku rolled his eyes at the dry statement before continuing.

"Yeah, but he thinks it's his fault. I mean, he thinks he could have done better with me. I was already fucked up when he started taking care of me though."

"How so?"

It was Mariku's turn to raise a brow, and he batted his eyes, grinning coyly.

"You want to hear my story, brother dear?"

Bakura scoffed, turning back to face forward. "I've got nothing better to do."

"Whatever." Mariku focused on the back of the white head before him, tense for a moment, gauging the other teen, whether or not he could be trusted... he came to the conclusion that he didn't care either way. "There's not much to tell. About that part, anyway, cuz yeah, I don't remember it very well. Up until I was like, six or seven." Purple eyes wandered sidelong, squinting as he remembered, less in scenes and more in feelings. They weren't good feelings. "I just remember that I was always in this _one _fucking room. Which is bullshit, because we moved when I was three."

"From Egypt?"

"Yeah. But maybe it was two really similar rooms, I don't fucking know. It was always dark, and it smelled like piss. And I was alone," the vulnerability of the statement washed over Mariku, and he stopped abruptly, uncharacteristically awkward.

Silence.

When Bakura didn't taunt him, didn't even turn to make sure he was still following, Mariku brushed off his little hiccup and continued.

"Anyways, I didn't learn how to talk when I was supposed to. That fucks your speech up." He sighed. "Maliku tried to fix it, but it still took too long, and he thought I was retarded. I think he was embarrassed of me." Even as the words left his mouth, he was grinning, as if the memory was amusing to him. Then it left him, and he turned forward, squaring his shoulders. "But yeah. That's why it bothers him so much."

Bakura hesitated only a moment before he turned, just enough to eye the other teen with a placid curiosity.

"Where was your mother when this was all happening?"

Something frightening happened then.

It was as if someone had stuck a syringe in Mariku and drained him of every ounce of humor. His eyes darkened so dramatically that his pupils seemed to fade into them, shark-like. Bakura tensed all over, a chill threatening his neck. When Mariku spoke, it was in a voice that Bakura hadn't heard yet. Raspy, as usual, but barely human in its raw, gurgling hate.

"That bitch shat me out into the world. That's what she did for me. That's _it_." He bit the last word, and then he stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, a vein jumping in his arm just as it pulsed in his neck. Bakura watched both with morbid curiosity.

Then Mariku's eyes slid shut, and the movement was so measured that Bakura didn't realize he was blinking until they opened again, somewhat more clear than they had been. His voice, too, was a bit lighter, still sharp as glass in its unbridled disgust. "She doesn't deserve to be my mom. So fuck her." He spat. "I don't have a mom."

The silence that fell was much longer than the last.

They walked, as separate as two people walking together could be. They had gone nearly ten blocks before either of them spoke; it was Bakura who broke the silence, the fact in and of itself enough to draw Mariku from his turbulent thoughts.

"If we're being semantic about it, I haven't got a mother, either. She died." It was with an inappropriately airy tone that Bakura spoke, and he added as an afterthought, "my aunt and grandmother, too."

Mariku blinked. "Yeah, some kids at school were talking about it." He grinned unapologetically. "They think you're a freak."

Bakura couldn't restrain the smirk. "They do, do they?"

"Yeah." Mariku took two long strides, breaching the distance that Bakura had set between them. "Don't fret, Bakura. People think I'm a freak too."

"Oh, that makes me feel _so _much better."

Mariku took that last step forward, so that he was just shy of walking at Bakura's side. When the other teen made no move to increase the distance between them, he smirked. "You really didn't care?"

"About?"

"When you found out. About your mom and shit."

"Oh. No. Not really." Bakura tossed his hair back. "I don't remember her very well. Whenever she was around, Ryou would get... tense. It was uncomfortable."

"Well, duh. He's gay as hell."

"...Either way, she was a smothering sort of woman. Chatty. Touchy. I remember thinking that she was very stupid, for a grown-up." Bakura squinted, his gaze forward but his mind trying to conjure an image of the woman. She was pretty, round faced; or did he know that from pictures? "I preferred it when she wasn't around. And then, well..."

He let the sentence trail off, and Mariku snickered.

"That's cold. You're fucking cold." Bakura leered back at him, clearly anything but insulted. Mariku shook his head, mouth tugged upward in amusement, when a thought hit him. "I guess if Sister died, I wouldn't care either."

"You call your mom 'sister?'"

Mariku stared blankly.

Bakura scoffed. "You're so weird."

The conversation fell to a lull, but this time, it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. The two teens had said all they wanted to say—indeed, a bit more than that—and neither were much for small talk. Surprisingly, they had covered most of the distance already; Bakura wondered how the time had passed so quickly, and it never occurred to him that it was due to the company.

When they'd gotten home, Mariku had gone straight to their room. Having had more than enough of him, Bakura tossed his bag through the doorway and continued on to the kitchen. There he found his father stationed at the table, surrounded in a nest of papers, scribbling in various languages. A few feet away, Malik was peering over his shoulder, sipping in a bored manner at his coffee; he was the first to notice Bakura's arrival, and offered him a wicked half-smile and a too-sweet greeting. Ryou looked up from his work, beamed brightly, and asked how his make-up lab had gone. Bakura had taken one look at him, one look at Malik's mischievous, averted gaze, and considered a moment... with a sigh, he merely replied that it'd gone "fine."

.

A/N: A note on Ryou's wife/Bakura's mom... for those of you who haven't seen Season 0, or the Toei season of YGO, first of all go watch it right now and second of all Miho was one of the main cast, another one of Yugi's friends.


End file.
